Chapter 8Victor
Chapter Eight
Victor
The loud thud of the morning edition echoes through my office as I throw it on my desk in disgust. Front page, and there's my face, plastered next to a headline that might as well call me Scrooge. I snatch up my phone. "Angela, get them back in the conference room. Now."
"Right away, Mr. Stone," she says, her voice a calm contrast to the storm brewing in my chest. She doesn't even have to ask who I mean.
I'm pacing when the PR team assembles in the conference room, their faces a mix of concern and anticipation. They know what's coming.
"Explain this to me," I demand, jabbing a finger at the newspaper laid out on the table. The headline screams, "Victor Stone: Ice-Cold Heart Behind Pee Wee Hockey's New Gear?"
"Obviously," I sneer, "your little stunt didn't work."
They exchange glances, searching for something to say that'll pacify the tempest standing before them.
"Victor, we need to?—"
"Save it," I cut off any attempts at excuses. "We need a new play because this one's landed us in the penalty box." I grimace that I even used a hockey term.
I can see the gears turning in their heads, desperate for a hail Mary to pull my reputation out of the dumpster fire it's become. But they're clueless. And why wouldn't they be? They don't get it. They don't get me. Nobody does. Nobody ever has.
Jenna's voice slices through the tension, "Victor, you've got to give it time. Public perception doesn't just flip overnight."
"Time?" I scoff, running a hand through my hair. "For what? For them to skewer me more? We've poured money into renting the rink and all that gear. It should've been enough."
Tom leans in, his face serious. "It's not about the money, Vic. The media noticed you weren't really 'there' with the kids."
"What do you mean, I wasn't there? Of course I was there!"
"He doesn't mean physical presence," Mark chimes in .
"Oh, you're right, you're right. Next time when I'm spending thousands of dollars on people who don't appreciate it, I'll be sure to make sure my chakras are aligned and hold a seance beforehand," I scoff.
Tom looks like he's about to say something, but Jenna shakes her head at him, and he closes his mouth.
"Maybe if you show up at a few practices, get involved, it might make a difference."
I fix her with a stare that could freeze over hell. "I was clear from the start—I'm just the checkbook here. Next thing you know, you'll be asking me to get out on the ice." The last thing I need is to be roped into some feel-good sports montage.
But like sharks smelling blood, they all perk up. "That's actually a great idea!" one of them chimes, and suddenly it's a chorus of agreement around me.
I throw my hands up in frustration. "No, this isn't part of the deal."
"Victor, think about?—"
"Enough," I cut them off, my tone brooking no argument. "Next idea."
"Look, attending a few practices isn't going to kill you," Jenna insists, her voice both firm and imploring. "It's part of the gig, Victor."
"Practices?" I scoff, glaring at the insistent faces crowding the conference room. "You do realize that means I'd be shuttling back and forth to Worcester like some commuter. That's not my style. "
"Actually," Jenna interjects, tapping away on her tablet, "I can get a corporate apartment set up for you downtown. It'll help the town see you as one of their own. You grabbing coffee, shaking hands—it's good PR."
"Great, now I'm a part-time barista in your little plan." My sarcasm drips like acid, but she's relentless.
"Victor, this is your biggest development yet. The community needs to see you care, not just about profits, but about them."
The idea of playing local hero twists in my gut. But something in Jenna's gaze tells me she won't back down.
"Fine," I relent with a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of my own defeat. "Set it up. But I'm not doing cartwheels down Main Street."
"Wouldn't dream of asking you to," she replies, a hint of victory in her tone. And with that, the PR vultures disband, leaving me alone with the echo of my capitulation.
I yank my phone from my pocket, thumbing through messages until I find the group chat. The guys are going to have a field day with this.
Victor
Looks like I'm setting up shop in Worcester for a while
I hit send before I can second-guess myself.
My phone buzzes almost immediately, their responses lighting up the screen.
Lawrence
Victor's gonna be Mr. Popular, handing out autographs with his lattes
Roman
Make sure to perfect your pageant wave
Victor
Ha-ha
Any actual advice, or are we just roasting me today?
Roman
You could always try smiling, might make you look less like you're plotting world domination
Victor
Smiling doesn't come easy when you're bracing for impact
Lawrence
Not me sitting back and learning what NOT to do to generate good PR.
Victor
We all learned what not to do when you started your pipeline project.
Lawrence
Hey, I turned it around.
Roman
Yeah, but only because Willow agreed to associate with you.
Still don't understand how you got that woman to marry you.
I'm not entirely convinced she's not been brainwashed.
Sebastian
I can verify that she's not been brainwashed. But, I'm also surprised she agreed to spend the rest of her life with you, Larry.
Lawrence
Don't call me Larry!
Only Willow calls me that now.
Roman
Does she call you that in bed, too?
Oh, Larry! Larry!
Sebastian
I'd rather not picture what goes on in Larry's bedroom.
Roman
Do you and Willow want to star in your own enemies-to-lovers romance?
I can see the book now: *The Wrong Pucking Pipeline.* Guaranteed to hit #1 in the Kindle Store.
Lawrence
You're lucky I'm traveling right now, Roman. Otherwise, I'd come strangle you myself.
Roman
Whoa. I never said this book was going to be a reverse harem.
That's a whole different ballgame, no pun intended.
Sebastian
Getting us back on track. Vic, find out who's spearheading the protests. That's your target audience.
I pause, fingers hovering over the screen. I think back to my encounter yesterday. The little girl gliding across the ice, with those same chestnut curls. Her innocent eyes were wide with a mix of bravery and fear as she approached me.
"My mom doesn't like you," she said timidly as she pointed up to the stands. My gaze had followed her tiny mittened finger to a woman in the bleachers, arms folded, eyes fierce with disapproval. Chestnut.
"But she's letting me play because she believes in me."
"Who's your mom?" I'd asked, my curiosity piqued despite my best efforts to remain detached.
But when I'd finished turning around, the little girl had already skated off, her courage only lasting so long.
I didn't know what to make of the exchange at the time. But now, recalling that moment, the connection clicks like a lock opening. Could Chestnut be the leader of the dissenters? She was at the protest and, of all the faces at the practice, she seemed to be the one person immune to charm or charity.
Victor
Maybe.
But if she's as tough as she looks, this won't be a cakewalk.
Sebastian
Nothing worth doing ever is.
You've got this, man.
Victor
Thanks.
Though I'm not convinced. Winning over Chestnut feels like trying to warm ice with a stare. But it's a start, a direction to skate toward. And maybe it's my only shot at turning this whole icy mess around.